


above all things, love

by raedear



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, I am once again asking you to trust me, Inspired by Moulin Rouge!, Love at First Sight, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, YOI Regency Week 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24021265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedear/pseuds/raedear
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov was in Paris all of three days before he found his way to the Moulin Rouge.Newly arrived in Paris, Viktor Nikiforov looks for inspiration in the Bohemian revolution. Instead, he finds the world is not quite so simple as 'freedom, beauty, truth, and love' would suggest.All Eros wants is to fly far, far away from the Moulin Rouge.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 31
Kudos: 40
Collections: YOI REGENCY WEEK





	1. Arrivée à Paris

**Author's Note:**

> If you've seen Moulin Rouge, please trust me when I say I intend to surprise you.
> 
> If you haven't, I'm sorry. 
> 
> The tags that are there now are accurate, I swear, but more will be added later, so please check the tags and chapter notes carefully for any additional warnings. This fic will not include non-con or dub-con though, so please don't worry about that. 
> 
> A short chapter to start! Updates will happen on Wednesdays c:
> 
> Thank you to [IA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope) for reading this over, and to [Sean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seanconneraille), for very patiently and kindly correcting my French <3

Viktor Nikiforov was in Paris all of three days before he found his way to the Moulin Rouge. He was in love mere hours after he first walked through the doors, and less than six months would pass before he would scream his grief to an uncaring audience, the man he loved above all else lying dead in his arms - finally free, without him. 

Before all that though, before the lights of the stage and the whirl of the mill, before _Eros_ , there was just Viktor, fresh off the train from St. Petersburg, nothing in his pockets but clumsy poetry and enough francs to live like a king for all of three days. He was terrified, and elated. His mother had been viciously opposed to his leaving for Paris. She had screamed at his back as he walked away from his childhood home that if he left, he could never return. He would waste his life on absinthe and can-can dancers in Montmartre and die penniless, believing himself in love. 

It seemed as good advice as any, and with little delay he found his way to Montmartre to look for a boarding house. 

Exactly as his mother had promised, Montmartre was a den of Bohemian sin. Everywhere he looked he saw something new and thrilling: throngs of people drinking coffee and loudly discussing literature that no one would ever even admit they knew existed in Piter, out in the open in front of noisy cafes; women in sharply tailored trousers, walking without chaperones; men in elegant skirts, their hair as long as Viktor’s had been as a young boy. He watched one person of indeterminate gender and striking beauty for so long he almost walked into a low wall. 

One thing Viktor Nikiforov could never be accused of being was shy, and as the hours passed without his finding somewhere to stay, he began to consider the merits of simply spontaneously joining one of the merry gaggles he passed and seeing if he could convince someone to take him home for the night. Luckily, before he could truly devolve into the lustful debauchery his mother assured him would befall him the second his feet touched the Parisian cobblestones, he spied a faded and cracked sign reading ' _L’amour’_ stretched right across an equally faded and cracked building. Beside the front door of said auspicious, if precarious, building was a discreet sign which read ‘Vacancies: enquire within’. 

Fifteen minutes and the bulk of his francs later, Viktor had lodgings for the month and officially lived in Paris. He celebrated by laying his typewriter on the desk by the window, briefly delighting in the fact he could see right over the buildings across the road to the Moulin Rouge the street beyond, and promptly collapsing on his bed and sleeping right through to the following afternoon. 

In truth after four days on various trains Viktor could easily have slept several hours longer than he actually ended up managing, were it not for the naked Swiss gentleman who fell quite unceremoniously through his roof. 

Surprised as he was to see him, Viktor was rather glad he’d fallen directly on his bed and landed safely (although he could have lived without the shock, frankly) and not three feet to the left, where he would have destroyed Viktor's typewriter and quite possibly injured himself. As it was, the man sat up, shook the dust from his vibrant bleached-blonde curls, and promptly winked at Viktor. 

‘I must say, I’ve found myself in many a beautiful man’s bed, but this might be the quickest I’ve ever made it there.’ His Swiss accent curled appealing around his perfect French, and his bright green eyes seemed to sparkle in the sunlight. 

Now, while it was certainly not unheard of in Piter for men to entertain the company of other men, they certainly weren’t quite so brazen about it, and Viktor had never had the freedom to indulge himself quite so overtly in his interests. As it was, he was never one to be backwards about coming forward, and so he winked back at the handsome man sprawled across his lap. He was rewarded with a bright grin and an offered hand. 

‘Christophe Giacometti. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, _mon cher_ ,’ 

Viktor took his hand with every intention of shaking it firmly as his father had taught him, but Mr. Giacometti surprised him again by twisting his wrist gently, and lifting the flat of Viktor’s knuckles to his lips. Unusually, as Viktor imagined himself quite unflappable, he felt a blush warm his skin. He found himself quite speechless in the face of such a display. Mr. Giacometti’s rakish grin widened, a charming dimple revealing itself deep in his left cheek. 

‘Polite society would have you return the favour now darling,’ Mr Giacometti said, his breath warm over Viktor’s knuckles. 

‘Ah-’ Viktor felt his face grow warmer still. ‘Viktor Alexandrovich Nikiforov. How do you do?’ Even as the question left his lips he cringed at the inanity of it. Mr. Giacometti was naked in his lap, and seemed more relaxed in that state than Viktor had ever been fully dressed anywhere else. Rather than mock him however, Mr. Giacometti merely tilted his head to the side and continued to smile at him. 

‘Viktor Alexandrovich Nikiforov. Well well, what brings a Saint Petersburg boy like you to Paris?' Viktor gave him an impressed yet puzzled look, curious as to how he was so quickly recognised. 'Your accent is stronger on your name than it is on the rest of your French, and I'm very fond of Russians.’ Mr. Giacometti settled himself more comfortably on Viktor’s lap, resting his right ankle casually atop his left knee. Viktor focused entirely on keeping his eyes at a polite height as he replied. 

‘Beautiful as Piter is, inspiration requires new environs to thrive.’ (Here Viktor indulged himself in giving his home its familiar name, feeling he needn’t stand quite so on ceremony in company such as this)

Mr. Giacometti looked particularly delighted at that pronouncement, vague as it was, and leaned in closer in his excitement. 

‘Now, what on earth could you mean by _‘inspiration’_?’ 

Before Viktor could answer however, they were interrupted. 

‘Chris!’ 

Viktor and Mr. Giacometti both looked up to see a man with thick brown hair peering at them through the hole in Viktor’s roof. He looked concerned, but not quite so concerned as Viktor might have expected. 

‘Masumi, darling! You must meet Viktor, he’s a delight,’ said Mr. Giacometti brightly, grinning up at the man with a softer smile than he’d graced Viktor with so far. It suited him.

‘I’m sure he is,’ the man called down, ‘but perhaps you should let the poor man wake up a little more, perhaps catch his breath, before you expose him to the full extent of your… charms.’ 

Mr. Giacometti waved a hand dismissively at the man, but when he turned back to Viktor his face retained its gentle smile, and left its rakish grin firmly in the past. 

‘A true delight to meet you Viktor - may I call you Viktor? (here Viktor found himself nodding, shocked but deeply pleased at how scandalously familiar the question was) ‘Then you must call me Chris. Now, I am truly in your debt for breaking my fall quite so effectively this morning, and I would be delighted to make it up to you by treating you to dinner - you simply must attend. I must know more about you. What do you say?’

Faced with Mr. Giacometti’s - Chris’ - surprisingly earnest eyes, and also his desire to experience the ‘freedom’ element of the ‘freedom, beauty, truth, and love’ he was promised by the ideals of Bohemia, Viktor found himself agreeing, and in short order Christophe was kissing his cheek goodbye and promising to meet him at a nearby cafe in a mere two hours time. He was out of the door promptly upon receiving an affirmative, wrapped in Viktor’s second best coat for some measure of affected modesty. Moments later, Viktor’s coat was dropped through the hole in his ceiling, and a rug was slid neatly over the expanse. Upon hearing Chris’ enthusiastic greeting of his companion, Viktor removed himself conscientiously from the room with intent to fill his water jug from the communal pump. Perhaps he’d take the long way round on the way back. 

* * *

Quite how Viktor had convinced himself he was wordly while living in Piter, he couldn’t say. Confronted with the Parisian nightlife, accompanied by a man such as Christophe Giacometti, he felt like a small town boy entirely new to society. All around them people of all creeds and genders and colours one cared to mention called out familiar greetings and jovial taunts to Christophe and his companion (Christophe had introduced him only as Masumi, and had made no mention as to whether that was his family name or otherwise. Viktor thought the whole thing quite charming), and to Viktor too, once they noticed him. More than one person approached them as they made their way through Montmartre to the restaurant Christophe had promised served the best foie gras in the city intent on touching Viktor’s hair to ascertain the truth of its colour, or to tilt his chin to the light to better catch the shine of his eyes. He felt quite on display.

Thankfully, for all his flirting and posturing, Christophe (Viktor couldn’t quite bring himself to call him Chris just yet) seemed a kind sort and rather more perceptive than he let on, and he swiftly hurried them along when the calls of the passing acquaintances began to grate on Viktor’s nerves. 

The cafe they made their way to was just as rowdy and noisy as the streets had been, and Viktor could see nothing to differentiate it from the numerous identical cafes they passed along the way. Yet more faces called out to Christophe and Masumi, but they waved them all away, blowing kisses to soothe any stings they might leave in the wake of their rejections. In short order Christophe led them across the crowded room and somehow conjured a table from the very firmament it seemed; tucked partially behind a screen and quite private compared to the general bacchanal the rest of the cafe’s clientele enjoyed. 

No sooner were they all fixed in their seats than Christophe was raising his hand to call for a round of drinks. Viktor watched him with no small amount of trepidation, unsure if he was quite ready on an empty stomach to sample the green fairy he had been so vehemently warned against, but to his mixed relief and disappointment he found himself furnished with a glass of champagne instead. Perhaps reading his emotions on his face, Christophe was quick to speak.

‘Plenty of time to meet the fairy later Viktor darling, the night is very young.’ Here, he raised his coupe, the champagne sloshing perilously close to the rim as he made a toast. ‘To new friends, and new ventures!’

Confused, but delighted, Viktor raised his glass in return. Masumi followed suit, but the look he bestowed on Christophe was drier than the wine. Christophe grinned at him, and fluttered his eyelashes beguilingly. Whatever silent communique passed between them, Viktor was not made privy to. Instead, the spotlight of Christophe’s attention was again focused on him, and he found himself answering question after question about his life in St. Petersburg. The champagne flowed freely, and seemingly without their ever ordering it food found its way to their table, and they ate and drank without reserve. 

Now, Viktor had long since begun to wonder exactly where Christophe’s interest in him lay. The flirtatious nature that had both mildly scandalised Viktor and endeared Christophe to him in the same breath was just as present at the dinner table as it had been in Viktor’s bed, but it was clear to anyone with sense that while he flirted liberally, Christophe truly only had eyes for Masumi. The likelihood of him looking to rejoin Viktor in his bed was vanishingly small. 

He was working up the courage to ask (helped along in no small measure by the champagne) when their dinner plates were removed, and a beautiful silver filigree and glass water fountain was placed in front of them, filled already with iced water. Several small spigots poked out from the sides. Christophe clapped his hands together gleefully, and leaned back from the table so the proprietress could continue laying out curious accoutrements. 

Odd glasses with distinct sections were placed in front of each of them, a round reservoir at the base of each already full of a vivid green spirit. Viktor could smell the sharp sweet aroma of anise, and felt excitement build in his blood. This was it. He was truly to experience Bohemia. As a finishing touch, the proprietress laid a lovely ornate silver slotted spoon over each glass, and popped a brown sugar cube on top with the air of a completed ceremony. She winked at Christophe as she left the table, and he caught her hand to lay a kiss across her knuckles. They began an excited discussion in a language Viktor didn’t speak, some cousin of German he guessed, although he wasn’t sure. 

Masumi cleared his throat quietly, and caught Viktor’s eye, demonstrating clearly but discreetly how to position the glass under the spigot to allow water to slowly drip onto the sugar cube. He did the same with Christophe’s glass, as he remained distracted. Viktor carefully mimicked him. As the glasses slowly filled, the green liquid grew cloudy and rich, losing its colour almost completely, and the smell of anise grew somehow more complex in the air. Viktor watched every minute change in his glass with wide-eyed glee. 

When the liquid was no more than a fingertip away from the rim of the glass, Masumi cleared his throat again, and turned the spigot off. Viktor copied him with as much grace as he could muster. Masumi lightly touched the tips of his fingers to Christophe’s wrist, and without a moment’s delay Christophe kissed the proprietress’ hand again, and turned back to their table. With far less care than Masumi displayed, he knocked the spoon from the top of his glass and raised his drink again in a toast.

‘To the green fairy, and to inspiration!’ 

Christophe drank deeply from his glass, but Viktor took his time, excitement fizzing on his tongue beneath the liquor. It didn’t taste nearly so much of liquorice as he’d expected, instead the anise was a gentle brush on his palate, the warming tastes of fennel and something floral he couldn’t name caught his attention much more. He could see the risk quite distinctly in the taste of the drink: it went down far too easily for something so potent. Clearly however, one was not expected to savour the bouquet of absinthe as one would wine, for as he raised his glass again for another sip, Christophe reached out and caught his free hand where it rested on the table. 

‘Now, Viktor, tell me truthfully: is that typewriter of yours merely an affectation, or can you actually use it?’ 

Viktor felt irrationally defensive of his heretofore unproven talent for writing (that is to say, in Paris - he had enjoyed some modicum of notoriety in Piter for his publications), and carefully maintained his genial smile in the face of what must have been Christophe’s true motivation in inviting him out - surely one did not buy such a lavish meal and drinks for a mere new friend. Although perhaps, he was forced to admit in the sanctity of his own mind, that was his mother’s distrustful nature speaking through him. 

‘I can most certainly use it. I didn’t carry it with me for almost two thousand miles as some kind of accessory to my vanity.’ 

Clearly sensing he’d struck a nerve, Christophe let go of Viktor’s hand in favour of spreading his own in a gesture of deferential apology. 

‘You mistake me, _mon ami_ , I merely wished to know what a man such as yourself would choose to write about.’ There was a tilt to Christophe’s smile which suggested that was not the limit of his curiosity, but Viktor took another sip of his drink and chose to extend his trust. He had no other friends in Paris after all. 

‘My hope is that Paris will inspire in me more love than Piter did. For all its beauty I found my homeland cold, and the novels and plays of my countrymen quite bleak. If I hope to write the works I wish, I must have fresh experiences,’ here, Viktor tilted his glass towards his tablemates. ‘Experiences such as this, for which I am most grateful.’

Christophe’s smile was positively wolfish, and he waved his hand aimlessly, as though dismissing a fly. 

‘I believe I may have a source of inspiration for you, and income too with a bit of luck.’ He said brightly, smile never shifting.

There it was. 

‘Loathe as I am to take my mother’s advice in any fashion, I must utilise her caution here, and ask you to explain yourself more fully before I commit to anything,’ Viktor kept his own smile broad and welcoming, but prepared himself for the loss of his burgeoning friendship should Christophe’s offer prove unsavoury. Well. More unsavoury than he was willing to endure anyway. 

Far from being offended though, Christophe seemed all the more pleased by his candour. 

‘Of course, of course,’ he said, his grin as expansive as the movements of his arms. He drained his glass, and poured himself a fresh shot from a bottle Viktor hadn’t noticed tucked behind the water fountain. With an air of routine, he slid his glass toward Masumi, who busied himself with the spoon and sugar cubes again. ‘Now, my darling, are you familiar with the Moulin Rouge?’

Of all the questions Viktor had expected, that was not one of them. He nodded cautiously, and waited for Christophe to elaborate. 

‘It may surprise you to learn that at one time or another, I was its principal dancer and star attraction,’ said Christophe with a tone of distinct pride. Masumi rolled his eyes very slightly, but his expression was only one of gentle mocking and not true annoyance. ‘As such, I was quite sought after by the _Tout-Paris,_ and was privileged to have a number of very generous patrons.’ Now that his attention had been drawn to it, Viktor could see in Christophe’s fluid and genteel motions the echo of his past as a dancer. ‘To my very literal great fortune, one of my beloved (and here again Masumi rolled his eyes) patrons passed away quite unexpectedly, leaving me a tidy sum in his will.’ 

Viktor mirrored Christophe’s polite tilt of his glass to his late patron, and nodded at him to continue as he sipped the last of his own drink. When he laid his glass down, Masumi didn’t wait to be asked before he took over pouring for Viktor too. He was slightly disappointed, as he had rather enjoyed the artistry in the experience of preparing his own absinthe. Perhaps next time, he would reclaim his glass and try again.

‘Now, suddenly possessed of a fortune and no longer inclined to compete with the bright young things appearing every day in the _corps de can-can_ ,’ continued Christophe with a vivacious wink. ‘I took my leave of the Moulin Rouge as a dancer, and began my attempts to bring some legitimacy and respectability to the dear place.’ Here, he nodded at Viktor. ‘This is where you enter, _mon cher._ ’

Viktor laid a hand on his chest with an only-slightly affected expression of surprise, accepting his refreshed glass from Masumi with a murmur of thanks. Christophe did the same, and kicked Viktor very lightly under the table in rebuke for his sarcasm.

‘Yes, you, you scoundrel. The dancers of the Moulin Rouge are deeply talented, but find themselves quite maligned by the various scandals that haunt the place. By bringing a show less concerned with titillation and more concerned with dancing to the mill, my hope, and the hope of my fellow dancers, is that Paris will see the place for what it really is, and not merely as a den of iniquity.’ For all his humour and wit, Christophe seemed quite serious, and Viktor found himself moved, if still slightly confused by his earnestness.

‘That’s certainly a noble goal, and I do wish you every success with it, but I don’t understand how I can help?’ Viktor was neither a danseur nor a composer, and thus felt he had little to offer when it came to mounting a show. Christophe grabbed his hand again though, excitement and alcohol rendering him exuberant in his motions. 

‘That’s just the thing! If we perform something traditional, the _Tout-Paris_ will think it a parody and disregard it. If we perform something _new,_ something Bohemian and daring and cutting edge, it will be paramount for all to attend, simply so they can say they did! I already have my choreographer, and the most darling composer, but what we need is a _story._ We need a writer, Viktor, _mon amour._ We need _you._ ’ 

This time, Viktor’s surprise was genuine. 

‘You haven’t even seen my work — how could you possibly need me?’ He asked, shock and drink leaving his tongue loose and free in its tone. Christophe waved his hands dismissively again, in a manner quickly growing familiar, dragging Viktor’s hand along with him quite unconsciously. 

‘That’s the beauty of it darling — you tell us the story, and the dancers make it happen. The quality of your written word is secondary; if the show is a success, perhaps you write the novel and add another layer of legitimacy to our operation. If it is not, you cut all ties and move on with your reputation intact,’ Christophe raised Viktor’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles as he had only hours before. ‘A man in search of inspiration could do a lot worse than the talent of the Moulin Rouge.’

Like a bad penny, the threats of Viktor’s mother returned to him — would he waste his life on absinthe and can-can dancers? While little did he know that by refusing Christophe’s request he would avoid the most acute agony of his life, neither did he realise that by saying yes he would experience the truest love he could ever know. He had come to Paris to experience the Bohemian revolution; to find his voice and his inspiration in the city of love. Where his mother felt fear and revulsion, he felt only hope and delight.

He twisted his hand in Christophe’s grip, held it tight, and shook it firmly. 

‘I’d be delighted.’ 

* * *

The following afternoon brought the worst hangover Viktor had ever known, and Christophe Giacometti both. Once more Viktor was rudely awakened by Christophe arriving in his room, although this time at least he had the courtesy to enter via the door, and not the roof. Already the light filtering through his curtains suggested at least early evening. He had slept the day away (although in his defense, Viktor did not find his bed until the very early hours of the morning). 

‘Up up up _mon amour!_ ’ crowed Christophe, entirely too bright and too loud for the pounding in Viktor’s head. ‘Much to do today and we must have you looking your best for all of it!’

Viktor looked at him blearily through the tangle of his hair, long since collapsed from its pomaded coiff. ‘What could we possibly have to do today?’ 

Christophe scooped up Viktor’s water jug on his way past the vanity and without ceremony threw the contents in Viktor’s face. The water was shockingly cold for the warmth of the room, and Viktor found himself dripping wet and gasping for air in very short order. With the same lack of gentle feeling, clearly, Christophe continued his reign of terror by throwing Viktor’s towel at him and opening the curtains. 

‘The bath awaits you, and then we must get you dressed and ready. You have an appointment tonight, and you must look your best!’

Viktor tugged the towel from his head and glared at him.

‘You are the only soul I know in Paris, how could I possibly have an appointment?’ Christophe was busying himself poking through Viktor’s scant wardrobe, tutting and sighing over every garment he pulled into the light. He looked over his shoulder when Viktor spoke, and tutted and sighed over him for a momentary change of pace. 

‘That’s certainly not true, you know Masumi. Anyway, the show is not my endeavour alone - we must convince the Golden Star of the Moulin Rouge that you can do him justice!’ Christophe said his piece very quickly, burying his head further in Viktor’s wardrobe and avoiding his eye very neatly. 

‘Convince _whom?_ ’ asked Viktor, rousing from his bed at last and circling the vanity in an attempt to catch Christophe’s eye. 

‘Don’t worry about it for now! Just get in the bath and I will explain everything later. Over champagne. Possibly more absinthe. You’ll like him, I promise!’ At last Christophe deigned to meet Viktor’s gaze, his expression so innocent Viktor could practically see a halo above his golden curls. Possibly a forked tongue too, if he looked closer. Weighing the merits of continuing to argue for an explanation with a purposefully avoidant Christophe versus having a hot bath and hopefully shifting the hangover enveloping him like a stormcloud, Viktor decided that discretion was the greater part of valour, and retreated to the bath as he was ordered. 

Two hours later found Viktor washed and coiffed and dressed in a scandalously modern tuxedo of Christophe’s, cut trim and elegant around his waist and shoulders. With great aplomb, Christophe dropped Viktor’s best top hat on his head, took him and Masumi both by the arm, and marched them two streets over to the already wild and vibrant Moulin Rouge. The dying gold of the sun made the infamous mill on its roof look like it was limned with flame. They elbowed their way through the bustling crowd and into the already packed dancehall to the tables that lined the walls, and settled in with a quickly provided bottle of champagne to wait. Already dancers were swarming across the floor, frenetic and bright, all swirling skirts and skin.

‘Will you explain to me now, Christophe, exactly what you wish me to accomplish here?’ Viktor found he liked Christophe more with every minute he spent with him, but that his frustration with some of his less charming features grew proportionately. 

With a nudge from Masumi, Christophe sighed, and shook off the slightly manic cheer he’d worn like a coat since waking Viktor. 

‘In order for us to actually mount a performance of any kind at the Moulin Rouge, we must first convince Celestino Cialdini that it’s worth pursuing. The best way for us to do that is to convince the star performer that it’s worth _his_ time. That’s where you come in.’ 

The crowd was growing rowdier by the minute, the music and noise building headily around them.

‘Me? What can I offer to the star performer — whomever that might be — I only agreed to write your story last night!’ cried Viktor, looking to Masumi for support. He looked apologetic, but held his tongue. His gentle rebuke to Christophe the morning he and Viktor met was still the most he’d heard him say. 

Christophe smiled widely, gesturing so broadly with his champagne glass that Viktor feared for their clothing. 

‘Don’t worry so much! Read him some of your verses, impress him with your _modern poetry,_ ’ and here Christophe’s voice took on a distinctly licentious lilt. ‘You’ll have him convinced in no time, I’m sure of it.’

Viktor shook his head, slow and disbelieving.

‘What do you expect me to do, find him out on the dance floor and scream poetry in his ear? I’ll be laughed out of the room.’ 

It was Christophe’s turn to shake his head. 

‘I will ensure you have _private time_ together, _mon cher,_ ’ he said, winking. ‘Trust me.’

Viktor scoffed, and sipped his champagne. 

‘How can I trust you when I don’t even know who you’re talking about?’ 

Christophe moved to respond, but before he could the gaslights that lit the room around them were abruptly lowered, the hall plunging into relative darkness. There was a lull like a held breath, into which Christophe whispered, low and close to Viktor’s ear.

‘Speak of the devil… here he comes now.’

The centre of the dancefloor was lit by the burning phosphorus white of a spotlight. A man stood, momentarily existing only as a silhouette as sight returned to the other occupants of the room. As Viktor blinked the spots from his eyes, details came to him in pieces. Ink black hair. Flawless skin, darker than his own and beautifully smooth. Elegant and shockingly bare limbs; a gown edged in crystal, lined with red silk, cut high up one stunning leg. 

A creature of pure and distinct beauty; lust given form.

The announcer, distant and half covered by the growing cheers of the crowd made his introductions.

' _Mesdames et Messieurs - Eros!’_


	2. L'esprit de l'escalier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Mesdames et Messieurs - Eros!’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said Wednedsay but I have no self control. Bon appétit. 
> 
> Thank you again to [IA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope) for beta-ing, and to [Sean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seanconneraille), for taking pity on me and helping with the French :D

Christophe was still speaking. Viktor could distantly hear the lilting tones of his accent, but the words were lost to him. Beauty made flesh had entered the world, and nothing else mattered. Eros stood still under the spotlight — the crowd roared its approval around him, but he was unmoved. The other dancers had ceased their performances in deference to him. Viktor was sure they were talented, was confident others would find their performances thrilling and titillating and all things in between, but they could have been spectres for all he cared. 

Eros raised one hand high and graceful above his head, and the crowd fell silent, waiting. In one elegant movement he thrust his hand to the side as though dismissing an unwanted suitor and snapped his head around to face the opposite way. As he completed the motion, the band struck up once more. Although, as he began to dance, Viktor was abruptly unsure that he wasn’t simply creating the music with the movement of his body. Every stunning twist of his hips or flex of his arms called to mind more beauty than any musician could ever hope to achieve. He danced, and the breath was stolen from everyone in the room. He danced, and the world paused to watch. 

Was this love? To see him move; to see the grace in the arch of his foot, the curve of his neck. Was this love? To watch his mouth open in the slightest breath, the perfect pout of his lips catching the light that burned above him. His eyes were closed, and the fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks was a smudge of the night sky brought into perfect view. 

Perhaps sensing Viktor’s attention was well and truly lost, Christophe ceased to speak, and there was nothing more to distract him from studying the line that flowed from the tip of Eros’ fingers to the point of his bare toes.

He was perfection; a demigod untouchable by humanity. 

He raised one leg high in the air and spun in place, his beautiful gown fluttering around him, the vivid red silk that lined his skirts contrasting wonderfully with his pale and perfect skin. The black of the gown matched his hair almost exactly.

Viktor was utterly entranced.

All too soon the music came to an end, and Eros froze, his arms wrapped around himself, his head thrown back as though in ecstasy. 

The noise of the crowd was so loud that it was almost impossible to hear, a roaring in the ears more than a true sound. Viktor gasped as though coming up for air after drowning, and leapt to his feet to add the sound of his own admiration. 

Eros dropped his arms and lowered his head, opening his eyes at last to appraise the crowd. The light was too bright to truly see the colour of his wide and gorgeous eyes, but their dark depths were lovely even when indistinct. 

Curiously, Viktor began to notice members of the crowd waving their hands at him, some clutching fine jewellery, others waving thick piles of francs. He glanced over his shoulder at Christophe, who was watching the crowd with his chin cradled in his hand. When he spotted Viktor’s curious expression, he crooked his fingers towards him. Viktor sat back down and leaned closer to hear him - the crowd was still too loud to hope to make out his words at even so short a distance as stood in front of him. 

‘Eros has refused all patrons in his time here,’ shouted Christophe, leaning in even closer as a second wave of cheering echoed through the hall. Eros was taking his bows, and even the simple act of inclining his head was elegant. ‘Every time he dances people make offers to him, but he never accepts. Some think it’s a simple matter of price,’

Viktor looked at him sharply — it was his understanding that the Moulin Rouge, for all its reputation, was a dancehall, not a brothel, and he said as much.

‘Yes,’ hedged Christophe, a curious look on his face. ‘That’s very true. But in practice, it’s very common for some of the dancers to make the greater part of their profits in certain, shall we say, _side ventures._ Eros has so far proven uninterested. If anything, it only makes them want him more.’

Viktor could very much understand that feeling. The houselights came up again, the spotlight blinking out as warm yellow gaslight suffused the room. A tall man in the bright costume of a ringmaster swept through the throng of dancers to take Eros’ hand, holding it delicately up in the air with a bright showman’s grin. His hair was unfashionably long under his sparkling top hat, but in deference to him, if Viktor had hair as voluminous and fine as his, he’d wear it long too. The band struck up once more.

Christophe leaned in again, shouting and gesturing with his glass of champagne.

‘That’s Cialdini! You’ll meet him later, after you speak to Eros!’

‘He owns the Moulin Rouge?’ asked Viktor, eyes fixed on where Cialdini was now leading Eros in an adapted tango, merely a prop to his stunning footwork. He couldn’t think of meeting Eros, not now, not after seeing him dance. He felt distinctly unworthy.

‘No- well, almost, he owns part of it, but there’s a second partner. Celestino owns the rights to the performances and choreography. The second partner owns the dancers’ contracts and the deed to the building.’ 

Christophe was back in his element, his gestures growing expansive again as he settled back into drinking and merriment. Masumi kept his glass full, but otherwise seemed content to lounge back in his chair. 

‘Who is the second partner?’ asked Viktor, only half paying attention.

‘No one quite knows, he’s very much a silent partner, for the most part.’

There was something off in Christophe’s tone; it caught at the edge of Viktor’s perception, and he looked at him to see if some further explanation was present in his expression. There was an oddly serious light to his eyes.

‘For the most part?’

Christophe frowned and nodded.

‘On occasion he steps in and makes certain…’ here he paused, and sipped his champagne, looking to the ceiling as though for an answer. ‘Well, certain demands really. Unusual requests of performers, or staff. It’s all very hush hush. I never received one of his letters, but I heard of it happening.’

Viktor nodded slowly, and took a sip of his own drink. Eros’ dance was coming to an end, and as he twisted into the frame of Cialdini’s arms he lifted his ear as though listening for something. Whatever Cialdini whispered to him seemed to shock him, for his eyes grew wider in his face and his mouth opened a touch. Viktor wondered if anyone else noticed, for the crowd seemed as delighted as ever. As he watched, Cialdini gestured vaguely towards where they were seated, but before Viktor could remark on it, or ask Christophe if he had informed Cialdini of their intent to meet, a great rabble started up next to him. 

When he looked, it became immediately clear by the furious expression on the face of the man Christophe was speaking with that Viktor’s worry about Christophe’s waving hands had proven correct, and Christophe had managed to empty his glass of champagne over his shoulder onto his exceptionally fine dinner jacket. Christophe was flailing his hand apologetically, his face as charming as he could make it, but the man seemed unmoved, angrily dismissing him as his manservant brushed at his clothes. Christophe whipped around and with an apologetic twist to his lip plucked Viktor’s handkerchief neatly from his breast pocket. 

The loss of a handkerchief was nothing really, and frankly Viktor thought it prudent not to involve himself in Christophe’s attempt to charm himself out of trouble, and so he turned his attention back to Eros, just in time to meet his eyes. 

Eros looked directly at him. They could have been alone in the room for how direct his gaze was, but for the life of him Viktor could not read his expression. Something was there, in the tilt of his eyebrows or the raise of his jaw, but Eros looked away and the moment was lost. Perhaps, if they really were to meet later, Viktor could ask him about it. As it was, Christophe seemed to have reached some kind of impasse with the gentleman he’d accidentally inconvenienced, and he dropped back into his seat with an expression of extreme irritation. 

‘The bourgeois pig can clean himself up — such rudeness, who could believe it?’ Christophe said, in remarkably fine Russian. Viktor was so surprised to hear his mother-tongue that he quite forgot to respond. He supposed that Christophe did not want to bring the man’s wrath upon his head by audibly insulting him. Viktor nodded eventually, content to watch as the dancers began another group performance, Eros in the middle of it all, picked up and passed from partner to partner as the music grew wild. They were leading him to some kind of stage, topped by a miniature helter-skelter, their movements frenetic and passionate. The tower rose high into the air, and lights curved around it showing stairs and platforms all the way up. The dancers lifted Eros to the first step, and he began to climb, twisting and dancing all the while.

The audience watched in mild awe as he began to dance high above the crowd of dancers, following the curves of the helter-skelter ever higher; his grace more suited to the _Opéra de Paris_ than the slightly shabby stage of the Moulin Rouge, but he elevated the space around him with his mere presence.

Or he did, until he came out of a graceful pirouette high atop the twisting tower, upon the final highest platform, and froze abruptly in place. The crowd bayed, expecting some kind of triumphant finale, but Viktor watched in horror as Eros seemed to gasp and heave for air, his hand raising to cover his mouth. His eyes were shockingly wide, until they weren’t. 

With one final faltering gasp, Eros grew terribly pale, and his eyes fluttered shut as he pitched headfirst from the high platform, tumbling through the air towards the unforgiving wooden floor in a great fluttering of skirts. Viktor leapt to his feet the very instant Eros began to fall. From the corner of his eye he saw Christophe and Masumi do the same, but there was nothing to be done, they were too far away. A cry of fear ripped through the crowd, the band ceased playing immediately, and there was a terrible hush as all present waited for the sound of Eros’ fall ceasing. Eros’ descent seemed to last forever, and only a blink, all at the same time.

To the greatest relief Viktor had ever known, a tall man in the costume of an acrobat stood up straight in the middle of the dancers, Eros clutched safely in his arms. He had been below the platform, and from the looks of it had caught Eros mere feet from the floor. Eros’ head lolled sickeningly, his skin bloodless and pale. The man holding him looked towards Cialdini, drawing the crowd’s eyes along with him. Cialdini looked just as horrified for a moment, before he clearly shook off the emotion and snatched the announcer’s speaking-trumpet out from his hands. 

‘You’ve frightened him away!’ cried Cialdini, a bright grin pasted across his face. An uneasy chuckle echoed through the room. The man holding Eros hurried across the floor to the performers’ entrance, the dancers moving swiftly out of his way. ‘You all know our darling Eros, such a gentle and beautiful soul, he’ll be back in no time to delight and surprise you all again — but for now!’ He gestured broadly to the already moving and readying dancers. ‘Our wonderful _corps de can-can_ are here, and you can dance the night away with them!’ 

Viktor was truly impressed by Cialdini’s charms — he seemed to shake every worry from the crowd, and without further pause the room was back in wild and winsome motion. Perhaps, however, he thought quite uncharitably (although, not without merit), the crowd simply didn’t care for the man behind the dancing that had so enthralled them all. Viktor had counted himself quite among that number until Eros tumbled from the sky. Now he wanted nothing more in the world than to know he was safe. He looked at Christophe to see his thoughts on the matter, and was struck quite mute at the dark expression on his face. He had never seen his new friend like this, with such a shadow in his eyes where they were fixed narrowly on Cialdini’s face. 

It was gone in a blink however, and before Viktor could remark upon it, or question his friend, Christophe was already smiling brightly at him, and leaning over to speak.

‘Eros will be in the elephant in one hour — impress him with your wit and poetry, and we’ll be on our way in no time!’ 

‘The _elephant?_ ’ asked Viktor, incredulous. Christophe merely nodded, and held his glass high in the air in a toast. Instinctively, Viktor followed suit, and drank deeply as the music grew louder around them. 

* * *

In the courtyard behind the Moulin Rouge there stood a great and elaborate iron elephant, larger than life, cunningly disguising the series of corridors and rooms that Viktor now found himself exploring. Christophe had allowed him exactly one more glass of champagne before he chivvied him from the dancehall and up the hidden staircase in one of the elephant’s forelegs. He had paused at a handsome wooden door deep within the elephant’s massive body, and looked at Viktor with rather more weight than he normally showed on his expressive face. Viktor was coming to realise that there were depths to Christophe which he masked very effectively with his exuberant personality. 

‘Do your best, Viktor,’ he said, voice sombre. ‘But be kind with Eros. He is not all he seems.’ 

That particularly odd pronouncement given, Christophe slipped a small brass key from his pocket, opened the door, and gestured for Viktor to enter. As soon as he did, Christophe closed the door smartly behind him, and locked the door again quite decisively. 

Viktor found himself within a handsomely decorated waiting room, with a more elaborate wood and iron door separating him from the movement he could hear within the greater rooms of the apartment. He considered sitting on the richly embroidered loveseat, but dismissed it as he did not want to fumble to his feet again in front of Eros. He chose instead to stand as confidently yet unobtrusively as possible a fair distance from the door, so as not to startle him. 

Some time passed, although how long Viktor couldn’t say for sure. He considered knocking, as he was no longer confident Eros - if it even was him - had heard him enter, but before he could decide the doorknob of the elaborate door began to twist.

As suddenly as it began to move, the doorknob froze again. Viktor watched it curiously, wondering if whomever was on the other side was struggling with it. After a moment though, it twisted smoothly around with no further difficulties, and the door swung open slowly. 

Viktor heard someone take a deep breath on the other side, before the door opened wide enough for him to see Eros, peering around the edge of the door. His body was mostly out of sight, but his eyes were downcast and his cheeks were flushed. It was a relief to see him up and about. He didn’t seem inclined to speak. Perhaps he was waiting for Viktor to introduce himself?

‘Ah- forgive me,’ began Viktor, finding himself breathless all of a sudden. Eros was terribly lovely up close, and Viktor found himself quite robbed of sense. ‘My name is-’

‘I know who you are,’ interrupted Eros, before his eyes snapped up to Viktor’s face, wide and shocked-looking. His eyes, already large and bright, were lined with kohl. His flush grew darker across his cheekbones. ‘That is, I’m sorry, I know who you are. I’ve been expecting you.’ He opened the door wider, stepping back and gesturing for Viktor to enter the apartment. 

Apartment was too strong a word really, it was more a sumptuous bedroom with a tiny attached sitting area. Viktor blushed to see the large bed piled high with silk sheets and soft furnishings, sectioned off from the room by bright red swathes of gossamer and velvet hanging in curtains around it. He turned back to Eros, opening his mouth to speak again.

Viktor’s voice stopped dead in his throat, as his heart did the same in his chest. Other parts of him weren’t quite so quick to die, and he ignored them with all the force of will he could muster, keeping his eyes fixed politely, if manically, on Eros’ beautiful blushing face.

Eros was scarcely clothed. He wore all black, from his corset to his drawers. Clipped to an elaborate girdle nipped neatly around his waist he wore black stockings which stretched down his mile-long legs to where his feet were tucked into heeled slippers. As an almost insulting nod to modesty, he wore a robe of sheer black lace over the whole ensemble, tied at the waist and hiding everything and nothing all at once. It swept right down to the floor and clung tight to Eros’ shoulders and arms. Viktor closed his mouth with a snap when he realised he’d been gaping at Eros in silence like some kind of idiot, and gave him a neat bow of greeting, arm across his waist and head inclined as though acknowledging minor nobility — pulling all his knowledge of etiquette to the front of his mind in a desperate effort to salvage his first impression. 

‘It’s truly lovely to make your acquaintance-’ he fumbled briefly, reluctant to call Eros by anything so familiar as what was presumably his stage name, and entirely unwilling to embarrassingly tack a ‘ _Monsieur_ ’ before it. He rallied though, and carried on. ‘Thank you for meeting with me at such short notice, it is truly kind of you.’ He raised himself from his bow as he finished speaking. Eros’ face was blank as he looked back, but when Viktor caught his eye something seemed to spark in his expression. He turned away before Viktor could see for sure however, stepping quickly over to a low table between two soft-looking armchairs. On it was a bottle of champagne, chilling in an ice bucket, and a small array of finger foods - grapes and the like. 

‘Would you like a glass of wine, your grace?’ asked Eros. His voice was soft, and his accent had a musical tone that Viktor was unfamiliar with - he guessed it was likely the shadow of Eros’ Eastern heritage making itself known in the difficult twists of French. It took a moment for his question to register, and Eros was already pouring when he answered. 

‘Why, yes, please, but I’m not- please call me Viktor?’ Already it seemed Paris was making its way into Viktor’s manners. He never would have been so forward as to offer his first name only in Piter, but in this warm and elaborate Parisian hideaway in which he found himself with what was clearly the most beautiful man in the world for company, he couldn’t imagine being so formal either as to require him to use his family name or patronymic. 

Eros nodded, and took a deep drink from the glass he had just poured, topping it up again before he filled a second glass. Viktor watched him curiously, keeping his eyes firmly on the set of Eros’ shoulders or the movement of his hands, and not on anything lower down, no matter how much certain parts of his body may have screamed at him to do so. He was a gentleman, and he would act like one. Eros took another deep breath, and turned to face Viktor once more, holding a champagne coupe out towards him, a smile stretched tightly across his face. 

‘Would you like to sit?’ he asked, nodding towards one of the armchairs as Viktor accepted the glass from him. ‘Maybe… we could talk a while?’

Viktor was very quickly losing his confidence (if he ever could have truly been said to have any) in the face of Eros’ loveliness. In particular, the arresting honey-brown shade of his eyes, which now Viktor could see in detail he was finding it hard to think of anything else. Therefore, he saw it prudent to try and achieve his goal of impressing Eros as quickly as possible — if only in the hopes that his desire to speak would still be applicable after, and that Viktor would not embarrass himself and Christophe too completely. 

With that in mind he said: ‘No, thank you. If it’s alright, I’d rather just get started.’

Eros' eyes went very wide, and he seemed entirely thrown by the statement. But still, he nodded, and quickly (to Viktor’s faint surprise) drained his glass of champagne again. He placed the empty glass on the table and nodded once more, his eyes unfocused and fixed on some point in the middle distance. 

‘Let’s begin then,’ he said, faintly. 

Viktor nodded smartly back at him, and then was confronted by the fact that he had absolutely no idea where to begin. He had nothing written in French yet, and could hardly start spouting Russian. He felt his eyes grow intensely wide in his face, and he turned away to hide his panicked expression from Eros.

‘Where… oh where to begin- aaah. A story? Yes, yes I could tell a story, like Christophe suggested…’ muttered Viktor to himself, beginning to pace in the small area between the bed and the armchairs. ‘Yes, yes a story! A story,’ he began again, louder and more triumphant this time. ‘A story about love.’ He turned to face Eros again, smiling widely, and gasped when he found Eros bare inches from his face, looking at him curiously. 

‘A story?’ asked Eros, his eyes growing dark and heavy-lidded as he lifted his hands to play with Viktor’s collar. ‘What use is a story? Especially one of love.’

Viktor was gaping again, he couldn’t help it. He had only just calmed down after the last time Eros’ had surprised him, finding him not only so close, but _touching_ him was another beast entirely. He cleared his throat nervously.

‘Why… why, what else should a story concern itself with? Love, it… it is everything, is it not?’ 

Eros’ gaze seemed to draw inward for a moment, some emotion hiding itself in the corner of his lips that Viktor couldn’t name - he wanted to, and he thought perhaps if given more time to study it then perhaps he could, but as quickly as he noticed it, it was gone again, smoothed out into an attractive pout.

‘Not for everyone,’ he said in a murmur, before he raised his chin and pressed his lips to Viktor’s. 

Viktor froze in place, hands raising instinctively to press firmly against Eros’ warm chest, holding him still. Eros’ lips moved against his, and at the tentative brush of his tongue Viktor finally caught a hold of himself, breaking the kiss and leaning back to look Eros in the eye.

‘What-?’ he said, faintly, hands now wrapped around Eros’ upper arms. Eros raised an eyebrow at him. Viktor could still taste champagne on his lips from Eros’ mouth. 

‘Is this not-?’ said Eros, now looking unsure, his eyes flickering over Viktor’s face. ‘Not- not like this?’ The unsure tilt to his eyebrows worsened, and now he looked a little afraid, glancing between Viktor and the bed.

‘Not like-?’ Viktor’s own voice was faint in his confusion. He was swiftly losing control of the situation, and he had not even begun to convince Eros of his talents. Christophe would be terribly disappointed in him. ‘What are- Should I-?’

Some realisation seemed to dawn in Eros’ eyes, and he scanned Viktor’s face as though looking for some answer in the furrow of his brow. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find, for steel entered his expression, and he nodded again. 

‘I see. You want me to…’ Whatever he believed Viktor wanted, he didn’t say, merely let the thought trail away as he closed his eyes and bit his lip, looking as though he was gathering his strength for something. ‘Alright then. I… I shall.’

‘Wha-?’ Before Viktor could even complete the first word of his question, Eros was upon him again, knocking his weak hands to the sides and grasping Viktor firmly by the back of the neck, one hand twisted in his hair. He kissed him, hard and deep, and walked them both backwards quickly towards the bed. 

Something very wonderful, and very confusing was happening. Viktor was quite lost, struggling to keep his hands to himself, despite Eros’ insistence on pressing his body against Viktor’s. Viktor’s knees hit the end of the bed, causing them to buckle. He fell backwards, landing with a gasp of air. Eros stood above him for just a moment, watching him, and then began to climb on the bed too. He made as though to lie atop Viktor when Viktor wrested control of his body back from less evolved parts of himself, and rolled sharply to the side away from Eros, springing lightly to his feet again and whipping round to look at him. 

Eros leaned back on his elbows, looking up at Viktor with a distinctly surprised expression. 

‘Is this not what you wanted, your grace?’ asked Eros, his expression now settling into something supremely unimpressed. 

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ asked Viktor, desperately, dragging his hands through his hair without thought for his pomade. ‘Why are you calling me ‘your grace’? What is it you think I want?’

Eros sat up completely, shock rendering his cheeks distinctly pale. 

‘You… you’re not Lord Beaumont?’ he asked, some strange tone in his voice, almost hopeful it seemed. 

‘No! Certainly not. My name is Viktor, Viktor Nikiforov. I’m a- a friend of Christophe Giacometti.’ An expression of what could only be relief dawned on Eros’ face, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against his knees, breathing carefully, his hands cupping the back of his own neck. Viktor watched him with no small amount of concern, wondering if he should perhaps fetch him a glass of water. 

‘Are… are you alright?’ he asked, reaching out hesitantly towards Eros. Eros sat up sharply, and Viktor pulled his hand back immediately.

‘Yes, yes I’m fine. I’m just- just glad,’ said Eros, looking quite unsteady. 

‘Glad?’ he certainly didn’t look glad. 

‘Yes, glad that-’ it seemed the shock that had loosened Eros’ tongue had left him somewhat, for his expression hardened again, and he peered up at Viktor with a look of suspicion. ‘If you are not Lord Beaumont then what are you doing here? How did you get in?’ 

‘I- I’m a writer,’ began Viktor.

‘A writer,’ echoed Eros, looking distinctly unimpressed.

‘Yes, and, Christophe-’

‘Christophe,’ again Eros echoed him, more unimpressed with every word. Viktor had never felt so out of his depth in his life. 

‘Christophe let me in, and led me to believe you’d been informed of his intentions that I should meet with you to discuss my writing for your upcoming production!’ cried Viktor, speaking as quickly as he could, quite flustered indeed by the fix of Eros’ gaze upon his face.

There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other, Eros looking rather shocked by Viktor’s outburst, when to Viktor’s very great surprise, he began to laugh. 

It was gentle at first, a mere twitching of his lip, before it seemed to overcome him, and it grew from a gentle chuckle, to full and quite uncontrolled howl of laughter, hidden behind one delicate hand. His eyes were creased with amusement, tears gathering in the corners as he looked up at Viktor. Unsure what they were laughing at, but caught by the infectious nature of Eros’ sweet laugh, Viktor found himself laughing too.

It took awhile for them to calm down, both of them finding their breath only to lose it again when the other let out an ill-timed giggle. When their hysteria calmed however, they settled into smiling at each other, Eros still seated on the bed but looking distinctly more comfortable about it. He seemed to hold himself differently, with some relaxed set to his shoulders that had been absent before. 

‘You’re really here to convince me you should write for our production?’ he asked, blinking sweetly up at Viktor, who still stood before him. ‘Not for… for anything else?’ 

Viktor felt his cheeks grow very warm at the implications inherent in Eros’ question, and he was quick to shake his head. ‘Upon my honour as a gentleman, I am here only for the purposes of business,’ and fearing he may have insulted Eros with such an inelegant statement was quick to continue: ‘that is to say, not that you are not a lovely creature with whom I would be glad to spend my time! Quite the contrary - oh,’ Viktor cut himself off sharply, raising his eyes to the ceiling and praying very quickly for some merciful god to return his wits to him from where-ever Eros had sent them. When he looked down again, Eros was smirking at him. He still wore hardly anything by way of clothing, but the more relaxed he became, the easier it was for Viktor to look at him. He seemed softer, somehow. More approachable. 

‘Quite,’ said Eros, smirking all the while. Viktor rather wondered how he could ever have thought himself unflappable. Something occurred to him however, under the burgeoning happiness of his conversation with Eros.

‘Might I ask, who is Lord Beaumont? What did you expect of him?’ Viktor kept his voice gentle, but tension made its way back into Eros’ body all the same. His smirk dropped from his face as though it had never been, leaving the pale shadow of fear in its wake. 

‘Nothing for you to concern yourself with,’ he began, standing and pulling his diaphanous robe tighter around himself. ‘I can-’

Whatever Eros intended to say was cut off sharply by a great to-do from the other side of the door. Someone was in the attached waiting room, and by the sound of his voice seemed rather unhappy at being made to wait. Eros looked at Viktor with plain horror in his face.

‘You can’t be here,’ he whispered sharply, pushing Viktor frantically towards the balcony, tangling them both in the curtains around the bed. ‘You have to hide, you can’t be spotted, _please_ -’ Eros broke off around a cough, clutching Viktor’s shoulder and raising his hand to cover his mouth as he struggled to catch his breath. Viktor held him by the elbow, supporting his weight and looking at him with the greatest of concern as he continued to choke and cough.

‘Eros-’ he began, when the door burst open with an echoing bang, the flimsy lock giving easily under the weight of a large and ugly man forcing it with his shoulder. He looked at Viktor and Eros with a silent frown as a smaller, mousier man stepped in behind him. It took a moment for Viktor to recognise him as the man Christophe had accidentally thrown champagne over. His thin lips drew back in a nasty sneer as he caught sight of Viktor, half tangled in a red velvet curtain, holding a softly wheezing Eros by the elbows. 

‘Warming him up for me, were you?’ The man spoke sloppy French through a nasal English accent, and there was a cruelly mocking tone to his voice. Viktor was reduced to blinking at him foolishly, utterly poleaxed by how incredibly rude every single second of his existence within Eros’ space had been. To not only barge his way in, but to insult them both in such a manner. Unthinkable. He opened his mouth to set him straight, when the large man beside him shifted his weight slightly, the grip of a revolver showing itself briefly at his hip before the fall of his jacket covered it again. Wisely, he held his tongue.

‘Your grace,’ gasped Eros, catching his breath at last, squeezing Viktor’s shoulder once before letting go and stepping away from him. His skin had the pale and clammy cast of the unwell, but he straightened his back and gave the rude man as charming a smile as he could muster. ‘You’ve arrived just in time.’

‘Have I really?’ said the man, his eyes fixed on where Eros’ legs were bared by the movement of his robe. ‘Finding my chosen companion in the arms of another man is “just in time” by your book?’ 

Eros gave a tinkling laugh, entirely unlike the one he’d shared with Viktor mere moments before. ‘Lord Beaumont, might I introduce Viktor Nikiforov? Mr. Nikiforov is the writer of our little endeavour, he was visiting with me to rehearse my performance. We can hardly show it to you without such preparations, can we?’

Lord Beaumont, whom Eros had been so _glad_ to learn he was not in the company of. Viktor was beginning to see very plainly why that might be the case. Nevertheless, anxious to preserve both of their good reputations, Viktor sketched a polite bow (although not quite so polite as the one he gave Eros, given the circumstances and his growing option of the man).

‘How do you do, your grace?’ Lord was not usually a title connected to such a style as ‘your grace’, but it did not feel particularly prudent to question him as to his position within the English aristocracy. 

‘The writer,’ said Lord Beaumont, his tone very dry. Viktor marvelled internally that anyone in Paris deigned to speak with him at all, his accent was so appalling. ‘If you are rehearsing, where is Cialdini? Should the director not be present for such undertakings?’ 

Eros waved a hand dismissively in the air, brushing his lordship’s concerns away as one would an errant fly. 

‘It's late, and we did not expect to become quite so distracted by the nuance of character, we hadn't seen the need to bother Ciao-Ciao with such a small conversation.’ 

It seemed a night for people making rude entrances, as a sudden scuffle at the door caught their attention once more, and Christophe, Masumi, and a man Viktor had never met crashed through the broken door. Lord Beaumont’s tall companion reached for his gun, but paused before he grasped it. Viktor watched him warily, hands twitching to pull Eros behind him to keep him safe. 

‘Viktor!’ cried Christophe, a bright grin firmly in place. ‘How’s the rehearsal going?’ 

Now, Viktor had never considered himself a particularly good actor - his strengths lay in creating the scene and writing the lines, not delivering them, but he felt his performance at seeming unsurprised by Christophe’s question was worthy of any number of accolades. How Christophe could possibly have known of the lie Eros told, he truly couldn’t begin to say.

‘Excellent, most excellent,’ said Eros, clapping his hands together before stepping forward to clasp Lord Beaumont’s hand warmly between his own. The sight of it brought an edge to Viktor’s teeth, but he stayed where he was (although he judiciously untangled himself from the drapery, feeling it rather undercut his respectability). ‘Now your grace can meet Christophe Giacometti, our producer, Masumi, our choreographer, and Phichit Chulanont, our composer!’ Eros gestured to each man in turn as he spoke, and they bowed one after the other as Lord Beaumont surveyed them, making no move to return their greetings with even the slightest inclination of his head. 

‘Am I to meet the entire _corps de can-can_ tonight, Eros?’ asked Lord Beaumont, but the icy tone had left his voice somewhat, and he lifted Eros’ hand to his mouth to brush a kiss over the back of his fingers. Viktor found his hands clenched into fists before he gained control of himself again. 

Eros tittered a laugh again, brushing his free hand against Lord Beaumont’s chest. ‘Not at all, your grace. We merely felt it prudent to be as prepared as one could possibly wish before meeting with you, and sadly our timing was rather thrown by my… my fainting spell, earlier. Sometimes the heat, you understand. It can overtake one’s senses.’ Eros looked flirtatiously up at Lord Beaumont through his eyelashes, and the last of the irritation seemed to melt from his lordship’s face. He nodded, looking rather more punch-drunk now than anything else. 

‘Certainly understandable. I’m excited to hear your story,’ he said, his voice obsequious now in its flirtation. 

Eros tilted his head to the side, still smiling. ‘I’m sorry, your grace?’ 

Lord Beaumont kissed the back of Eros’ hand again. ‘The story. If I’m to invest, I must hear the story. Otherwise, how will I know if I like it? And as we are all here, although not for the purpose I was led to believe, what better time than now?’ 

The entire room as one turned to look at Viktor. Once more he felt his eyes grow very wide in his face, before he tried his hand at a charming grin of his own. It didn’t seem to do much good, and Eros widened his eyes at him in return, nodding his head discreetly towards the waiting Lord. 

‘Our- our story is about…’ Viktor looked somewhat desperately at Christophe. He had raised his hands to cover his face, and was peering out from between his fingers at Viktor, quite distinctly of no help. ‘Our story is about love!’ 

Eros rolled his eyes hard, and then glanced over his shoulder at Lord Beaumont, giving him a winsome smile. 

‘Love?’ Lord Beaumont seemed just as unimpressed as Eros. Viktor carried on gamely, trying to think faster than he could speak. 

‘Love! Love, in its many and myriad forms, overcoming all obstacles.’ 

‘What’s it called?’ asked Lord Beaumont, his attention almost entirely on Eros. Viktor couldn’t quite account for the way that made him feel, and so he elected to ignore it. 

‘It’s called… it’s called _Eros and Agape_!’ he said, triumphant in his wit. Eros and Masumi rolled their eyes in perfect unison. It was rather impressive, as an external observer, and rather hurtful as the person currently being called upon to think on his feet.

‘Ah! Perfect then, for our embodied Eros!’ laughed Lord Beaumont, looking as pleased with his comment as if he’d named Eros himself. Eros turned and laughed with him, that same musical false laugh. If Viktor hadn’t been so lucky as to see him laugh in an entirely unguarded state, he would have believed it to be true. As it was, it seemed as weak as a facsimile of Eros’ humour to him as a shadow is to a creature of flesh and blood.

‘Exactly,’ Viktor’s smile felt sickly upon his face, but he carried on. _‘Eros and Agape_ , sexual love and unconditional love. Our story concerns the unity of both - Eros, here our star, plays a man wanted by all but held by none. He plays a- a-’ once more Viktor glanced around his supposed friends for assistance. None was forthcoming. ‘A dancer, a dancer in the _corps_ of, the service of-’

‘A king!’ cried the man Viktor had yet to meet, whom Eros had introduced as Phichit Chulanont. Viktor gave him a grateful nod which he hoped he had managed to disguise as merely forgetful. 

‘Yes, yes a dancer in service to a king. Eros - our dancer - dances each night for a jealous king who believes that ownership is the same as love. The rub is, he has never met the king, only danced for him behind a screen, so that no one in the court may know how lovely his true face is. Our dancer wishes for more, for love, for freedom and truth, where all he has is beauty.’ Viktor chanced a glance at the true Eros. His attention was entirely focussed on Viktor, his hand loose in his lordship’s grip as he listened. ‘Enter Agape, a penniless…’

‘A penniless bard,’ supplied Christophe, having finally removed his hands from his face. 

‘A penniless bard. The dancer is called to the king’s rooms, where the bard stumbles upon him in an inopportune moment. He- he wasn’t trying to trick him or anything!’ Once more Viktor looked at Eros, entreating him with his eyes to believe his tale. ‘But he was dressed in great finery, as he was putting on a performance and wanted to make a good impression.’ 

Lord Beaumont looked relatively interested, and discreetly, masterfully, Eros led him to the armchairs and settled him in one facing Viktor, placing a glass of champagne in his hand without breaking his focus. Lord Beaumont pressed one final kiss to Eros’ hand before he stepped away. 

Viktor felt a deep frisson of joy when Eros stepped towards him, and away from Lord Beaumont. Viktor wished he could reach out and take his hand, and wipe from it any touch of that awful man. He came and stood beside Viktor, settling himself neatly in a resting fourth position as though ready to dance at a second’s notice. 

‘The bard sees the dancer for who he truly is, and they fall instantly in love. They must hide their passion however from the jealous king, who wishes to keep the dancer entirely for himself.’ Playfully, Eros hid his face behind one of the velvet drapes. Viktor felt something brush his fingers, but carried on, aware that Lord Beaumont’s attention was very much fixed upon him. ‘The bard and the dancer continue their relationship under the king’s nose, and share a secret song, so they will always know the other is true, even when they are apart.’ He nodded at Mr Chulanont as he spoke, whose eyes widened very briefly before he hummed a sweet little refrain. Lord Beaumont gave a small smile, his moustache bristling with the movement of his lips. 

‘What happens next?’ asked Lord Beaumont. ‘Does someone die in the end?’ 

It took rather a great deal of strength on Viktor’s part to stop the scowl that wanted to cover his face at such an uncouth question. 

‘Next…’ started Viktor, weakly, running out of steam at last. 

‘The lovers are discovered,’ said Masumi, to the surprise of all who knew him. Christophe was the only one of the cohort who seemed unmoved by his sudden speech. 

‘Thank you, yes, the lovers are discovered,’ said Viktor, feeling sick at the thought. ‘And the bard is banished. The dancer continues to dance for the king, although he is heartbroken at the loss of his love. One night, he hears their song sung by a servant, and realises the bard has returned to him in disguise. The bard helps him change his appearance, and they flee the palace and the king together, to live happily ever after elsewhere.’ 

The room was silent, all of them waiting for Lord Beaumont’s decision. Viktor twisted his hands together behind his back. The story was nothing like he had intended to create. How could he make something new and modern out of such a standard tale?

‘Well,’ began Lord Beaumont. ‘Generally, I rather like it.’

Christophe and Mr Chulanont gave delighted cheers, and Masumi smiled deeply. Eros stepped around Viktor to make his way back to Lord Beaumont, crossing behind him and out of his lordship’s sight for a moment. As he did, Viktor felt him trail his fingers across his wrist, above where his fingers were tangled anxiously together. He fought to keep his composure as Eros walked away. 

When he reached Lord Beaumont, he bent down and kissed him softly upon the cheek, lifting his champagne glass from his hand as he did so. Lord Beaumont looked deeply pleased, and then confused by turn as Eros stepped away again. 

‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said to the room at large. ‘I’m sure Mr. Nikiforov’s tale has inspired within us all the same drive to create the most marvelous production we can, has it not?’

There was a great chorus of agreement and nodding from all in the room but Lord Beaumont and his manservant. Finding himself quite swept up in it all, Lord Beaumont stood and accepted his cane and hat from Christophe, who had darted into the waiting room to fetch them as Eros was speaking. He looked more than a little confused, but Eros continued before he could gather his thoughts.

‘Truly, such a wonderful idea, your grace, that we be ready and able to tell our tale to the gathered talent of the Moulin Rouge as soon as possible. How wonderfully you’ve advanced our production already.’ Eros' smile was more effective than any siege-weapon, and Lord Beaumont’s defenses seemed quite unprepared. Viktor could almost feel sorry for him. Almost. ‘As such I’m sure you share our desire as a creative troupe to rest and refresh ourselves fully for the long day ahead - although as I’m sure you know, there will be a great many long days ahead until we can fully mount our performance.’ 

Lord Beaumont nodded slowly, placing his hat upon his head. Eros held out his hand, smiling very gently at his lordship, as one would a tired child who refused to go to bed. He took Eros' hand, and kissed it once more. 

‘A very great pleasure indeed to meet you, your grace. I look forward to meeting with you again tomorrow with all the joy one could imagine. Ciao-Ciao will be simply delighted to hear of your intentions to invest, and your artistic vision for our production.’ 

Looking rather lost, but not unhappy, Lord Beaumont nodded, and murmured a small goodnight to Eros alone. He looked expectantly at his manservant, who preceded him out of the door, holding it open for him as he blew a kiss back to Eros. Eros glanced away demurely, blushing sweetly.

They then waited, staring at each other, until the sounds of Lord Beaumont and his manservant leaving were long gone. 

‘Do you have _any idea,_ ’ began Eros, beautiful in his sudden and growing fury, ‘what could have happened-’

‘Of course,’ interrupted Mr Chulanont, the smile he had worn like armour the entire time Lord Beaumont had been present dropping from his face. ‘Of course we know. Why do you think I planned a rescue?’ 

Eros looked slightly mollified by that, before he glanced at Christophe and the anger crept back into his expression. 

‘And you?’ He demanded. ‘What do you have to say for throwing him at me, with no warning for either of us?’ Eros gestured at Viktor as he spoke, and Viktor briefly considered attempting to defend Christophe, before deciding that really, he had done more than enough for him, all things considered. 

Christophe smiled charmingly at Eros, but there was something in his eyes, or the set of his shoulders, Viktor couldn’t quite tell, that was rather different from the Christophe he was used to seeing. 

‘Phichit planned a rescue, and I planned an ambush. Both would have had the same results, but only one would have long-term effects.’ Eros’ gaze was very level upon Christophe’s face. There seemed to be some communication between them, some code hidden within their words or expressions that Viktor could not read. ‘Now, we have a production, a financier, and a story, such as it is.’ Viktor allowed himself a wounded look at that. He had tried his best in a stressful situation after all. 

Eros didn’t look happy, but he nodded all the same. ‘The story will do. The rest will fall into line, or there will be consequences none of us will like.’ 

‘We’ll take care of it, _Eros,_ ’ said Christophe, his voice sharp. 

Viktor was rather quickly coming to realise there was more at stake here than he’d been made aware of, and he was very conscious of Christophe’s attempts to avoid his eyes as they made their farewells to a pale and drawn Eros. Viktor was glad to see him fetch a rather more substantial robe from a discreet wardrobe as he made his exit.

* * *

Viktor followed Christophe dutifully from the elephant, his mind a whirl with the events of the evening. Mr Chulanont bid them goodnight with no further ado as soon as they were free of the iron structure, vanishing into a side entrance of the Moulin Rouge. Christophe and Masumi kept their own counsel, walking close together several steps ahead of Viktor. 

It did not take a genius to piece together the clues of Eros’ fear, his expectations, and the eventual arrival of Lord Beaumont. Something had compelled him to be in such a state of readiness for him. Viktor had several theories, but in all honesty, none of them mattered at the moment. 

He had so much he wanted to say to Eros. So much he wanted to know about him, to hear from him. He felt as though each step away from him was made through treacle, his path slow and ponderous. 

Just before Viktor stepped back into the shadow of the Moulin Rouge proper, he glanced back up at the elephant, hoping for one more glimpse of Eros’ lovely face. He got rather more than he expected, spotting Eros even higher than the balcony that protruded from the apartment he’d found him in. He was climbing an external staircase upon the elephant’s head, up towards a viewing platform disguised as a hat. Viktor glanced over his shoulder — Christophe and Masumi had vanished into the dancehall, presumably headed home. He should follow them. He knew it. He should follow them, and leave Eros to his peace.

He did not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter, maybe drop me a comment if you feel like it? c:
> 
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**Author's Note:**

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